


Tilden Katz

by anonlytree



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, Uh. It got out of hand...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-07-19 07:27:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7351675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonlytree/pseuds/anonlytree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not a low key car. It's not a low key beard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anaile20GH](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anaile20GH/gifts).



> [¡Vámonos!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wvkzoqQ5Oak)

Stevie finds him waiting in a parked car outside University Field # 1 after his midday training session. They spoke on the phone three days ago and he does not remember any mention of a transatlantic flight with less than a week to go before a cup final. Not a single "Hey, is Gratty around next Tuesday?". No indication that the sunset pictures Stevie sends him from his hiking trips around Hollywood Hills are enough to make him hop on a plane a continent away. No word from Carra, which Stevie finds suspicious in itself. Granted, Xabi's season ended with a trip to the emergency room, but even so, it's unlike him to show up unannounced just to say Hello halfway (two thirds) around the planet. Yet there he is, wearing one of his loose collared tshirts with a breast pocket, green tinted sunglasses and a matching baseball cap.

He gives Stevie a jetlagged smile as he sees him cross the street, his backpack hanging off one shoulder. Outside of Liverpool fan pubs on both coasts, the training ground of California's premier football destination is the one place in America where he's most likely to get recognized and papped by professionals and amateurs alike. And he rolls in in a bright scarlet 1954 Chevrolet convertible.

It's not a low key car. It's not a low key beard. It's a beard that's been trimmed and groomed, just... not recently. The car on the other hand is impeccable. It's the color of the 2009 home kit, Stevie thinks, and then he thinks it looks like a toy, a shiny prop. Maybe there isn't any engine at all under that slick bonnet and Xabi just hired it so he can sit in it and stare up at the clear Los Angeles sky through the palm fronds.

"I wanted to get a Cadillac, but they were all booked" Xabi says, the double -ll melting on his tongue. "Better this way, less cliché."

He stretches over to open the passenger door for Stevie who throws his backpack onto the upholstered floor and settles in the warm leather seat. 

"Lemme guess, you were in the neighborhood?" he asks. 

"Hello," is all Xabi says and Stevie notices he's also wearing a pair of tan shorts, his boating shoes and, for the first time he can remember in eleven years, his wedding ring. 

 

 

~~~

"You ever driven on the 405 before?"

"No. It is as exciting as they say?"

"At this hour? We might get lucky and catch an earthquake you can actually feel. Where are we going exactly?"

"Somewhere far... Let's go to Canada!"

"Got a game there on Saturday, but it's on the other coast. Some of us got work to do in summer, mate, can't laze about and go on holidays as we please. How about we get something to eat? You hungry?"

"No. But I'll eat."

"Take the next left, past the petrol station."

"Aye, Captain!"

 

~~~

Xabi moans, honest to god arches his back and moans, right there in the middle of the In-n-Out restaurant outside Marina del Rey. 

"The sauce... Hostia... "

"I know! Animal style," Stevie says and goes back to feeling quietly warm and ridiculously pleased just by watching the man across from him chew on his Double Double mustard grilled burger.

He looks at Xabi smacking his lips and inhaling grilled onion topped up with melted cheese with the kind of focus others reserve for paintings in a museum or their social media feeds. Xabi's eating fries Stevie can't have because for him summer's no longer that time of joy and wonders and binge drinking (and boredom) known as offseason. A flash of pink tongue comes out every so often to lick the grease off Xabi's overgrown beard and Stevie decides right then and there that none of the many questions he has for his unexpected guest are important enough to need answering right now. 

"Should we get you more fries?" Stevie asks as he shamelessly poaches some from Xabi's greasy tray. "Unless - wouldn't want to get you into trouble with Pep."

"It won't make me any slower, will it?" Xabi says. "I am sure we can find a way to burn the calories."

 

 

 

~~~

Stevie suggests nearby Venice Beach. It's too crowded for Xabi's taste and Stevie has to admit he still gets stopped for pictures in this part of town - not often, but often enough to not be worth the risk -  so they keep driving. The sixty-year-old engine purrs, drowning out the waves crashing under the Pacific Highway while they fall straight back into the easy back and forth of their phone conversations that span nine timezones and two marriages. 

Back on WhatsApp the kids smile from candids, they're doing great - beautiful and funny and creative. (Jon's hardman tackles did cause a bit of concern at school, but they agree to find a way to blame Carra.) Out here in California, they only talk about food (Xabi has a bad case of farmers market envy), beaches and coves and the California wineries neither of them have had the time, nor the right company, to explore. Football catches up with them eventually, it always does. Pep will be missed, Brendan not so much. They both relish the opportunity to spend the upcoming Euros with their feet up, chugging cold beers and savaging the youth of their respective nations for every misplaced pass. 

"I think it will happen this year," Xabi says and Stevie is too stunned by the softcore techno tune pouring out from Xabi's ipod and into the 1950s stereo to react. 

"England will finally play Spain," Xabi adds, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel in tune with the synth drums. The sea breeze flattens his hair across his forehead, an unexpected throwback to a different time in their lives. 

Stevie chuckles, still unnerved by the notion of Xabi having a guilty pleasure clubbing jam, let alone one that references taking poppers in Ibiza. He's seen Xabi dance. This is not happening.    

"I bet your lot would love it," he says. "It'd be a bit like playing Spurs in preseason, after you just won the World Cup... You miss it, don't you?"

"Never."

 

~~~

They pull over into a deserted parking lot, the Chevrolet sparkling and incongruous next to a pickup truck and a Prius. The cliff beach is only accessible down a steep flight of stairs suspended over dirt tracks, ravines, and shattered boulders and the wooden steps creak under their feet.

Halfway down, they meet a group of teenagers with buggy boards that are still dry and beach towels that haven't been rolled out yet. Stevie notices there aren't any other people down by the rock formations on the beach, which suits them just fine. He's only been here once before, but the place's a little too empty even by its standards. 

"The park ranger just drove by five minutes ago, you guys can still take some pictures before the patrol's back," the curly girl leading the pack calls out from ten steps down.

"Back for what?"

"The beach's closed. They spotted sharks off Zuma, so they're closing down everything up to Sequit Point."

"Thanks for the warning," Stevie says once they meet the kids, as tan and shaggy haired as every youngster he's ever met in California. "We're just going to have a look."

Xabi's a whole flight of stairs lower by now, so Stevie waves goodbye to the buggy boarders and follows his footprints in the sand. 

"Uh. What are you..." 

Stevie's staring at Xabi's broad back, his pale skin tinted blue by Stevie's sunglasses, and then down to where his shirt lands by his discarded shoes. His glasses end up on top of the pile. 

"Did you hear those kids? Sharks and cops patrolling everywhere, we should probably stick to... Xabi!"

Stevie can't quite believe that he's objecting to Xabi taking his clothes off after so many months of aching just from hearing his voice, but it's been that kind of day. A lot feels off. 

"I didn't pack a swimsuit," Xabi calls out over his shoulder and steps into the frothy waves before his pants even hit the sand. He's gone in three big strides and Stevie watches his arms stretched in a graceful arc above his head breaking the first incoming wave. 

"I got a big pool nobody uses, we can..." Stevie offers, but Xabi's shoulders are out of sight now. 

It's funny for about ten seconds and then Stevie's stomach starts to curl in on itself. He paces helplessly to the edge of the surf, yanks his sunglasses off and squints towards a horizon turned liquid by the afternoon sun. He yells Xabi's name two, three times feeling stupid the more his hands go cold and his breath quickens. That's not how the ocean works. There's nothing out there, no man and no gray fin, just overlapping waves. What a tit, he's too old for this shit, you're too old, he's in for a proper bollocking when he crawls out, he grew up by the sea, he's a strong lad, his arms are solid and warm... come _on_... 

"Fucking hell!" Stevie mutters into the neck of his shirt, finally escapes it, shoes off, shorts won't drag him down, propelled as he is by the need to punch Xabi Alonso in his stupid face. 

His lungs sting and his skin goes numb. Stevie tries to open his eyes under water, the Pacific ocean has other ideas. He comes up for breath and feels something grab his shoulder, sending daggers straight into his brain stem. His arms flail until he can get his bearings and then he grabs Xabi's arm and feels his chest working frantically for oxygen against Stevie's body. He'll punch him later, he has to put every ounce of energy into pulling both of them out of the waves for now. 

Xabi's cold and panting and pressed head to toe against Stevie, his open mouth dragging in big gulps of air in the space between Stevie's neck and his collarbone. Stevie lifts himself up on his elbow and watches Xabi roll over on his back, coughing and wincing until he curls back into Stevie. 

"Ow... rib... 'm not supposed to hold my breath for so long," Xabi croaks and Stevie realizes how fresh the footage of Xabi being picked up off the pitch like a ragdoll is. Bruised not broken. Still hurts like a bitch. His hand reaches out to brush over Xabi's side until it rests in the dip of Xabi's hip. Clarity is slow to trickle back into his brain, he remembers being proper mad at Xabi for something, but says:

"Not supposed to swim in shark-infested waters either, but here we are."

And then he pulls on Xabi's wet hair to tilt his mouth at the right angle and kiss what little breath's left out of him. 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Tú que estás en alto cielo, Échame tu bendición...](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G9peRjFYPkE)

They're in a motel by the beach and it might be old and cozy, but it's still in Malibu. There's no trace of grit or grime, no decrepit name plate rusting in the sea breeze, no ominously creaky floorboards. The bedsheets smell of verbena. They serve organic quail eggs for breakfast. Xabi would be disappointed, if he weren't busy peeling Stevie's still wet clothes off and licking sea salt off his shoulder while their shirts lay discarded on the floor.

"Owrrr," Stevie growls when Xabi runs his fingers down his stomach and into the waistband of his underwear. He bites Xabi's lower lip to free himself. "Shower," he orders again once Xabi's tongue's no longer in his mouth.

Xabi follows him, and it's not because there are dried bits of kelp stuck to Stevie's hair and sand drying off in places it's got no business being in to begin with. He steps into the shower cabin and closes the glass door behind them because he's incapable of denying him anything, Stevie could fuck him with his voice.

"Close your eyes," Xabi says, pulling Stevie under the water spray, which flattens his hairline and overwhelms his soaked eyelashes.

Stevie breathes in steam that smells of violets and of Xabi, with a dash of that foreign scent of American water he hasn't noticed now in a while. The flowery shampoo Xabi spreads on his head feels nice - or maybe it's just Xabi's fingers playing with his hair that make him grin. He takes his time too, not pulling Stevie's head back under the rinsing stream until he's made sure every single grain of sand is washed out of Stevie's hair. Xabi runs his palm flat against the top of his head one last time, pulling his clean hair back and leaning in to kiss him, wet and open and a little too hard.

"Thanks," says Stevie and stops just short of lecturing Xabi about water waste and California's drought conditions. He's never felt more Angeleno than just now.

Instead, he reaches for the metallic tray behind Xabi and grabs one of the bottles, caring very little if it's actual bodywash or not. He lathers Xabi in scented foam, running his hands all over his chest, his stomach, his back, pulling him closer with every fresh layer of suds until he's soft and pliant and a little desperate to rub himself against Stevie's thigh. It's not very fairplay of Stevie, but all's fair in - whatever this is.

"Xabi," he asks, ducking to avoid the spray of water filling in every pocket space between their bodies, "what's wrong?" then drops a soft kiss on the shell of Xabi's ear.

"Why would anything be wrong?"

Stevie runs his soapy fingers down Xabi's back, squeezing him closer, grabbing his ass, slowly working him open between kisses. He's willing to let him get away with it, he's selfish enough to not push it; how could he do anything to risk this unexpected chance of putting his mouth right. there. on that patch of skin just under Xabi's dripping beard. He can't do anyhing that robs him of the sight of Xabi's mouth open and panting, of the way Xabi clings to him when he adds a second finger.

"Nothing... is wrong," Xabi says, unprompted this time. "Is nothing new, I'm just... Absent. And need... uh... to show commitment," he gasps, latching both arms around Stevie's neck for support. "And I... don't open up," he adds and drags his tongue across Stevie's lips until they both lose their balance and slam into the tiles behind Xabi.

Stevie catches him in time, sees the grimace on his face and runs his hand over Xabi's ribs.

"We can... Don't have to, if you want to go take a painkiller or - "

"I did not pack any. I didn't take one before I got on the plane."

"I'm sure we can get you some," Stevie offers, although he doesn't sound very convincing and doesn't look terribly willing to get out of the shower either, not when Xabi's dick is rubbing against his stomach, hot and slick.

"I don't want any. I want to feel everything," Xabi says and Stevie goes back to kissing drops of water falling off his soaking beard.

 

 

"Stevie?"

"Hmmm?"

He drags his leg in between Stevie's, pulling the bedsheets tighter against their cooling bodies.

"What do football players do in Ibiza?"

"Get smashed and lay about in the sunshine? Dunno, whatever anybody does in Ibiza," Stevie mumbles and pushes his nose further into the crook of Xabi's neck. So much burnt skin, so many freckles he'll kiss in the morning. He makes a mental note to get him some ice for that bite mark right above his collarbone, it's bound to be mauve and painful by tomorrow.

"No, I mean. What does one do in Ibiza that screams: I am a man who has an obscene amount of money from kicking a ball and I am here to have some fun?"

"Why, you planning a lads' vacation there?"

"It is not my plan, but. I was just wondering."

"You could rent a boat. Or try flyboarding."

"Flyboarding..."

"Maybe not for you, too easy to look like a twat strapped to a hose," Stevie smiles against Xabi's skin. "Looks exciting though. Ibiza's fun. It won't kill you, having some fun. You should try it."

"Hm."

 

He'll drop Stevie off back in Carson where his car's still parked. The closer they get to LAX, the likelier they are to run into cameras pointed at them. Besides, Xabi hates airport goodbyes. He asks Stevie for directions to the In-n-Out nearest to Departures, determined to stuff at least three double double meals into his duffel bag before boarding.

There's no rush for now.

They have lunch outside on the beach deck, drawn by the sounds of guitars being strummed on an improvised stage, and they watch the few tourists who'd hung around on the beach through the shark attack alert as they stare longingly at the dead calm ocean.

Stevie asks for the car keys and returns with a box of Ibuprofen from his backpack. He doesn't know a single professional athlete who'd board a plane without one and Xabi doesn't argue, he swallows two and chases them down with his vanilla ice cream float. The band come back from intermission. They strap their guitars back to their summer flannels and carry on playing Hall and Oates covers under the cantilever sun umbrella blowing in the breeze above their head. They don't seem to mind that the lunch crowd has trickled down to the beach, leaving them with an audience of four, plus the waiters leaning against the door and playing with their phones. The two men ignoring the world around them at a table in the back finally take notice of the show when the middle-aged couple in the front row can no longer resist the urge to get up and rumba in their flip flops to 80s classics.

Xabi starts filming them on his phone. Stevie finds it a little intrusive, but then again he can't stop looking either. The bottle blond lady's quite fit, in her lemon yellow beach skirt and blue swimming top and she's a good dancer, even though her partner seems reluctant to dip her back all the way on the instrumental bit of the song. He waves at Xabi with the hand he's using to lead blondie and asks him if he could please take some pictures of them with their own phones.

"Sure, mate," Xabi says, and this is the most delighted he's ever been at a photo request.

Their names are Sandy and Diego. They're from Oregon, not married but still going strong after seven years, and they're making their way down the coast to celebrate the last of Diego's kids leaving the nest. Xabi introduces them as Steve and Rick, although he stops just short of claiming he blows up bridges for a living when asked about what he does.

"I run a startup. Phone apps."

Sandy ooohs because Diego's daughter's dreaming of Silicon Valley even though she's just starting college.

"Just a small business, nothing that exciting,"

"How long you guys been together?" Diego chirps. "Sorry, don't mean to be..."

"About a decade now," Stevie says, grabbing Xabi's fingers and rubbing his knuckles with his thumb. Their new friends are suitably impressed. "I'm a kept man, by the way. This one does all the work, I'm just here to make sure he has some fun too," he adds, squeezing Xabi's hand.

"Lucky Rick! You look great together," Sandy says. "You should have a picture with the ocean behind you."

Xabi hands Diego the phone - Sandy claims she's a terrible photographer - without any hesitation and presses his knee into Stevie's under the table. They've given back the key and are officially checked out and the car's too tiny to explore this new idea of Stevie as his toy boy, but he trusts himself to come up with a solution soon.

"Closer," Diego prompts.

Stevie curls his arm around Xabi's neck and nips at Xabi's jaw.

"You want another one?" asks Diego as Xabi checks his phone.

"No, this is good, thank you," Xabi says.

He's a little shocked to see himself smile on screen, open and warm.

"Did we leave something in the room?"

"Not much to pack, so uh... don't think so."

"We should ask for the key back, just to make sure" Xabi insists, rubbing his foot against Stevie's ankle.

He'll have to forgo the burgers to make it to the airport in time. He's fine with that.

 

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. [Airport goodbyes are totally cliché.](http://wrotefootballficiregretnothing.tumblr.com/post/125846439666)  
> 2\. So are Soundtracks, but I LOVE THEM AND I DON'T CARE!  
> 3\. [# aesthetic ](http://booperesque.tumblr.com/post/146892839642/sharks-a-fic-rec) (This is by FAR the best thing about this fic!)  
> 4\. [Old but performing admirably. ](https://67.media.tumblr.com/1260ea12602dc1608f3ce67aa465eba6/tumblr_n5zh56tT0k1s0p2yqo3_1280.jpg)


End file.
